


Upfront (help me get away from myself)

by amorremanet



Category: Community, Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Community: spnpairingbingo, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP. <i>What does he care if he's being honest about this outside of his therapist's office? …it's not like he's ever going to see Dean again.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Upfront (help me get away from myself)

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fill the prompts, "whisper" for 100 things (random prompts), and, "Dean/Crossover Character" for ~spnpairingbingo.

McInerney's is a quiet, out of the way sort of place for young professionals who haven't made it quite enough to go to one of the more expensive watering holes in town—nowhere anybody Jeff knows would ever turn up, thank God. He has to park his car two blocks away and hunt for the particular hole in the wall that leads him where he wants to go, that's how hidden it is. If anybody from Greendale has ever been here before Jeffrey Tobias Winger, he'll eat his best Gucci loafers with barbecue sauce.

Annie, despite her old living arrangements, would turn up her nose at the thin film of grime that's settled in over anything and everything, or else she'd try to scrub the floors with a toothbrush. Britta would probably denounce the place as too mainstream and Michelle, wherever she is, would call it too confining. Worst of all of them, Shirley would take some issue with how much this place stinks like Allen—how the people in it, barring a few precious exceptions, all have suits and ties and reek like Jeff's so-called "old life," the one she wants him to stay away from. Little does she know that it's too low-end for Allen and everyone at the firm.

It's not rich enough for Pierce, and not seedy enough for Star-Burns. It's not fun enough for Troy and Abed—the menu has a noticeable lack of cheeseburgers and the walls aren't covered in knick-knacks and all kinds of assorted, childish trappings. It's not cheap enough for Neil, and it's not wholesome enough for Rich—that's assuming Rich has ever stepped foot in a bar in his entire, perfect life. And as for Chang, the Dean, and Duncan… Jeff might just be taking his chances, assuming that they've never heard of McInerney's, but there definitely aren't enough dalmatians or near-naked go-go dancers here for the Dean. He'd hate it. If he showed up here, he'd probably whine and then leave.

Shirley makes herself the worst of the bunch because, despite himself, Jeff wants to make her happy—not in any way that would involve stealing her from Andre or putting her into a morally compromising position, but in a way where her approval does matter to him, more than anybody else's in their study group. As he takes a seat at the bar, as he orders his Macallan, neat, he shudders to think that she could ever catch him here, with what he has on his mind and what he has in mind to do. She'd know it in a second—because she knows him better than the rest of them combined—and she'd probably talk him out of it, convince him to come catch a movie with her. At the very least, she'd try.

But sometimes, a man has needs—and sometimes, one of those needs involves the clause that there be no strings attached and no awkward clean-up, no sticky, troubling emotions to deal with in the morning. Sometimes, Greendale hasn't changed Jeff quite as much as he'll occasionally acknowledge. Sometimes, he just needs to drag his eyes up and down the bar, looking for anyone whom he can pick out as a prostitute—it's this or the phone-sex line, and Jeff would rather have physical contact tonight. His skin itches to have someone else's hands on it, to get yanked flush up against someone else's body. Jeff wants scratch marks to chafe against his shirts for the next few days, maybe even a week.

Unfortunately, there are only three women in the entire place tonight—one of them's behind the counter (Jamie, who knows Jeff well enough to let him in the back-room for free), and the other two are sitting at a corner booth, entrenched in some deep conversation with each other—and the only person Jeff can pick out as a hooker? Is sitting at the other end of the bar, wearing a beat-up brown leather jacket and jeans with a torn-out knee. He stands out among the bar like his bright green eyes stand out from the rest of his face—and it's a pretty face, too, all high-angled cheekbones and plush lips—thank God for that, because if it wasn't, Jeff might've gone home to call the phone-sex line instead.

With a huff, Jeff flags Jamie over, has her send down an order of whatever the guy's drinking. It takes a long moment for this trick to work—Jeff nurses his second drink and waits. He checks the clock, and he waits some more. He glances down the bar at the guy, but trying not to look like he's looking, and he waits—and finally, the guy wanders down, takes up the seat next to Jeff, and introduces himself as Dean—he's Dean Kirk. It's so tempting to introduce himself as Troy or Neil, some name other than his own—because this guy's just a hooker; he doesn't really care about Jeff's name anyway—but as he shakes Dean's hand, sniffs the Jack Daniel's coming off of Dean's breath, Jeff introduces himself so well, so properly, that even his Mom couldn't find anything wrong with it.

"I'm Jeff," he says. "Jeff Winger—and would it be cliche if I told you that you had one of the nicest pairs of eyes I've ever seen?"

Dean smiles, snickering a little, and supposes that he's heard worse lines before. "But I guess I can let that one slide. Mostly because you're pretty cute for a… CEO? Investment banker? _Lawyer_?"

"Ex-lawyer." Jeff wrinkles his nose—but even as he bristles in his suit, he can't help the swell of pride, the thought, _I still look like a lawyer—thank God, I still look like a lawyer_. "So, what do you do?" As though Jeff doesn't know—as though this is any other sort of pick-up. "I don't suppose you captain an interstellar spacecraft, with a name like Dean _Kirk_?"

"Yeah, no—only in my wildest dreams, First Officer Fancy-pants." He scoffs—he's mouthy, for a hooker, for someone whose livelihood depends on pleasing other people—but even if Jeff minded, that dimpled grin and the way his eyes crinkle up would sell Jeff enough to ignore that. Hell, it could sell him enough to buy Dean dinner first. Besides, maybe the way he runs his mouth off means he's up for all the things Jeff could never get Britta or Michelle to do—maybe he'll be game to shove Jeff around or claw him up or tell him that he's worthless.

But before Jeff can consider what he wants too much, Dean says, "Cut the crap, Pretty Boy. I've got a job to do, and we both know you only bought my drink for one reason."

Jeff sighs and tosses back the rest of his Macallan. Hisses as it burns its way down the back of his throat. And he puts on his best, diamond-slicing smirk as he says, "Can't knock you for your work ethic. How much for a tumble in the back-room?"

Dean wastes a moment, pretending to think about that question. "Two-hundred. Cash. Upfront."

As Jeff slips off his stool and leads Dean back, he silently thanks his luck that he has enough with him for tonight. Aside from that, there's so many other places where he's getting off easy here. At least they don't have to go to a hotel—at least they don't have to leave the bar and risk getting noticed—but on the other hand, Dean loses that brusqueness as soon as Jeff shuts the door behind them, as soon as Jeff fumbles the cash out of his wallet and into Dean's rough-looking hands (not that Jeff can particularly comment on roughness—he hasn't shaved in three days, and aside from the suit, he's too disheveled and mixed up to be bringing anyone back into this room and it's low-lighting).

Dean grins for a moment as he slides the bills into his own wallet, bares his teeth and gets all crinkly around his eyes—he's like a little kid, not a thirty-something professional sex-merchant. He kisses Jeff gently, cautiously, as if to make up for the scraping, sandpaper feel of his stubble under Jeff's mouth, but at least he kisses deeply—there's that much to be said for him and there's that to be said for the way that he nibbles at Jeff's lower lip. No one pushes, or shoves, or gets rough with anybody else, but they topple to the sofa together, Jeff clattering down first and Dean dropping into his lap. He sticks the landing, straddles Jeff's hips, and Jeff groans into the next kiss, knocks his hips up into Dean's.

Dean rides that motion, pressing back down into Jeff and grinding hard against his lap, rocking in perfectly synchronized rhythm with the next time that Jeff makes bumps his hips up into Dean's ass. He cups Jeff's face with one hand, sighs and brushes his thumb down the apple of Jeff's cheek and the patch of early growth beard—and it makes Jeff's stomach turn and sour and start doing some Gold Medal-worthy gymnastics, the same way it always does when people get that kind of tender with him, when there's caresses instead of smacks and hair-pulling. So Jeff kisses him harder—bites on Dean's lip instead of sucking on it, digs his teeth in hard enough to leave a bruise, tries to slurp all the air up and out of Dean's lungs.

It occurs to him, briefly, that kissing Dean like this is something he's only done a handful of times—usually, Jeff just tries to bait other people into kissing him this way—and he wonders if it's fair to keep nipping at Dean's lips, to chase them down and kiss them hard and make Dean squirm in his lap from Lord only knows what he's feeling. Dean probably uses his pretty face to make a living—he's not like all the other prostitutes Jeff's ever encountered, but it's still probably unfair to want to get his whole mouth all blue-purple and aching from where it's had Jeff Winger on it.

"So why do you do this," Dean whispers, when they have to take a break to breathe, when Jeff runs out of oxygen—and his heart skips a beat, his mouth falls open, his lips and teeth and tongue somehow come together to splutter _what?_ without Jeff telling them to do so.

Dean just shrugs. "Not a hard question, is it? Why do you do this? I mean, you're a good-looking guy, suit says you've got money, you don't seem like a total douchebag—why not just find some girl, find some guy, find someone who really cares about you? Probably get a lot of takers."

"I think I'm supposed to be the one asking _you_ that question, aren't I?" Snark is Jeff's best defense—maybe the only one he has right now—and he scoffs, quirking his lips _just so_ and wrinkling his nose up at Dean. Dean pulls out the sad eyes, and Jeff guesses he owes the guy some kind of answer.

"I don't believe in relationships, and I don't think that relationships really work the way you seem to think they do. There's a lot of work that goes into them—work that, frankly, I'm not cut out for. At all. Besides, anything I've got going for me is drastically outweighed by the metric ton of daddy issues, and body image issues, and self-esteem problems, and everything else I've got that keeps my therapist up at night."

What does he care if he's being honest about this outside of his therapist's office? What does Jeff really have to care that he hasn't even said this in so many words to his study group? They already know everything he's telling Dean anyway—and it's not like he's ever going to see Dean again. But something twists like a knife inside Jeff's chest when Dean's face falls, when he drops his eyes down to Jeff's lap, to the contrast of his denim rubbing up against Jeff's trousers—and whatever it is twists harder when Dean sighs, when his shoulders drop and when he ghosts his thumb down Jeff's cheek again, when he lets his hand fall off Jeff's cheek and slips his arms around Jeff's neck.

"Yeah," Dean says through a huff, looks up to meet Jeff's eyes, smiles like the grave. "I know the feeling—and never even mind all the traveling around that work means I do. Settling down… It doesn't work out that well for me, either."

"I don't think I've ever met a hooker who was so oddly suited to me," Jeff say, arches an eyebrow at Dean. "If I didn't know any better—and if my birthday wasn't for another six weeks—I'd suspect that my friends planted you here for me."

"Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint? But you finding me was just a stroke of luck."

They don't say anything else—but then again, they don't have to. Something clicks and their mouths fit together just right, and when Jeff knocks his hips up into Dean's, Dean presses back down into him without breaking the kiss, without taking his hands off of Jeff's shoulders. They keep at it until Jeff's hard—he can feel Dean's cock straining at his jeans as well, but there's one thing that takes Jeff by surprise. That's the way that Dean slides back along Jeff's thighs, dragging his palms down Jeff's torso as he goes. It's the way that he slides to the floor and onto his knees, the way he expertly undoes Jeff's belt. He flicks Jeff's button out of its hole, presses his fingers into Jeff's cock as he unzips Jeff's fly—Dean scratches Jeff's sides and then his legs as he nudges Jeff's briefs and trousers down to the floor and Jeff's ankles.

And Jeff gasps at the feeling of Dean's nails on his skin—they're not particularly shocking, and he doesn't press down all that hard—but Jeff still gasps. He lets it get high-pitched and whiny, until it almost squeaks, no matter how much his stomach's knots clench around themselves at the way Dean chuckles and smirks up at him, at the thought that Dean might find that noise as emasculating as Jeff does. Jeff's forthcoming with his other noises, too—he grunts as he scoots up to the edge of the sofa, drags his hips along the cushion; he sighs and groans from the pit of his chest as Dean rubs his palms along Jeff's thighs; he huffs in something like amusement as he brushes his hands along Dean's scalp, losing his fingers in Dean's hair. And in return, Dean bites back on something—a squeak of his own? a whimper?—when Jeff tugs at his hair.

He almost isn't ready for it when Dean licks at the base of his shaft, but Jeff still nods when Dean looks up at him again, wearing some wide-eyed expression that makes him look so young, so lost—it just screams, _tell me I'm doing a good job_. Jeff holds his breath, can't watch as Dean takes his cock into his mouth—the red wallpaper becomes the most fascinating thing in the room because Jeff can never watch another guy working him over. He can lean forward and rock his hips toward Dean. He can comb his fingers through Dean's hair, do his best to try and mess it up, even though it might be too short to get properly mussed. He can push his cock further into Dean's mouth, chase after him every time that Dean pulls back, yank on Dean's hair every time he tightens his lips around Jeff's shaft, or skirts his teeth along Jeff's skin, or flicks his tongue _just so_ —

But Jeff cannot watch another guy working his lips and tongue up and down his shaft. He can't watch to see the hollows that Dean's cheeks get when he sucks, or the way that Dean balances himself, digging his fingertips into Jeff's thighs—Jeff can only feel all of it. Jeff just has to close his eyes and try not to think of anything else—he focuses on his breathing, on making sure his breaths stay deep and even ( _in… and out, in… and out, in… and out_ ), despite the way that Dean speeds up his work, despite the way that Jeff's heart races and his fingers clench, burying themselves in Dean's hair. He lets a stray, _oh God_ slip out, and in a moment of welcome obscurity—of getting so absorbed in counting off his breaths—Jeff barely notices when Dean switches to using his hand, to palming up Jeff's spit-slicked cock instead, kneading his thumb into the base.

Jeff comes not soon after, but there's nothing special about it. No orgasm, no white-hot rush, no anything—just a shaky little whimper from the back of his throat, and the sound of Dean fumbling for the box of Kleenex on the table, by the lamp. Dean's the one who cleans up, and the one who does the leaving. He makes his exit with a mumbled, _seeya, Jeff_ , slams the door on his way out. And Jeff just sits there for a while—still slouching forward, slowly coming around to blinking at the wall, trying to remember who he always plays out there so he can swagger out of here and keep the rest of the world from knowing. Keep them from putting it together that he's really not who he pretends to be.


End file.
